Chapter 3 - The Ghost of October 1998
The chill inside the old boxing club seemed to drop ten degrees as Vincent’s words settled over the canvas like falling ash.
Cassidy remained on her knees, her fingers tracing the faded signatures on the partnership deed. The ink had yellowed with age, but the implications were razor-sharp. Her father, Patrick Gallagher—the quiet, weary man who had raised her in a small, modest apartment filled with the smell of old books and liniment—hadn't just been a gym rat or a neighborhood fighter. He had been a foundational pillar of the Kelletti syndicate.
“You’re lying,” Cassidy whispered, though even to her own ears, the denial sounded hollow. The sudden terror she had seen in Dominic Vale’s eyes back at the Brass Lantern made total, agonizing sense now.
“I don’t lie about history, Cassidy,” Vincent said quietly, remaining knelt beside her on the floor. He picked up one of the old newspaper clippings—a faded black-and-white photograph of two young men standing outside the very same brick building, laughing with their arms slung around each other’s shoulders. One was Vincent’s father, Vince Sr.; the other was a younger, sharp-eyed Patrick Gallagher with the exact same stubborn set of the jaw Cassidy saw every morning in her bathroom mirror.
“My father died of a heart attack five years ago,” Cassidy said, her voice shaking slightly as she pointed an accusing finger at the clipping. “The hospital records are right there. He died in a sterile room with an oxygen mask on his face.”
“That’s what they wrote on the certificate,” Vincent replied, his dark eyes hardening into flint. “Because a sudden coronary is a lot cleaner for the insurance companies than a bullet wound or a forced overdose administered by men who didn't want him talking to federal prosecutors.”
Cassidy’s breath caught in her throat. The room seemed to tilt sideways. She grabbed the edge of the canvas to steady herself, her mind racing backward through years of fragmented memories. She remembered the late-night phone calls that made her father jumpy. She remembered the locked metal briefcase in the back of his closet that she had never been allowed to open. She remembered the strange men who used to watch their apartment building from across the street when she was ten years old.
“If what you’re saying is true,” Cassidy said, her voice dropping into a dangerous, icy register, “why are you telling me this now? Why bring me here?”
Vincent stood up slowly, offering her a hand.
Cassidy ignored his hand, standing up on her own terms, brushing her knees off with sharp, jerky movements.
Vincent didn't take offense. He slid his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants, walking toward the edge of the ring and looking out over the dark, empty rows of wooden bleachers.
“Because the war your father walked away from never actually ended, Cassidy,” Vincent said, his voice echoing in the cavernous space. “It just went into hibernation. For twenty years, the factions kept a fragile peace. But three weeks ago, someone started leaking our North Side shipping routes to the Doyles. Someone inside our inner circle.”
Cassidy narrowed her eyes, putting the pieces together with the sharp, analytical mind she had inherited from both her father and her mother’s side of the family. “Dominic.”
Vincent nodded slowly. “Dominic Vale. His uncle was the capo who tried to push my father out in ’98—the very man Patrick investigated before he vanished into suburban anonymity. Dominic thinks he’s clever. He thinks he’s rebuilding his uncle’s old faction by feeding information to Aiden Doyle, exactly like his family did two decades ago.”
“And you brought me here because you needed a sparring partner?” Cassidy challenged bitterly.
“I brought you here,” Vincent turned to face her, his gaze locking onto hers with terrifying intensity, “because I needed to know if Patrick’s blood still ran hot. I needed to know if his daughter had the spine to finish the war her father started.”
Cassidy stared at him, the weight of the past crashing down on her shoulders like a falling ceiling. All her life, she had believed she was just a regular girl working double shifts to pay off medical bills, trying to survive in a city run by monsters.
Now, she realized she was the daughter of a ghost who had tried to take down those exact monsters from the inside.
“What do you want from me?” she asked, her voice steady, resolute, and completely devoid of fear.
Vincent walked back across the canvas, stopping just inches away from her. The height difference was stark, but Cassidy didn't flinch.
“I want you to help me dismantle Dominic Vale and the Doyle syndicate,” Vincent said plainly. “Not with a gun. Not with brute force. With the financial and tactical records your father hid before he went into hiding. Records I know he passed down to you before he died.”
Cassidy’s eyes widened slightly. The locked metal briefcase in her mother’s attic. The combination her father had whispered on his deathbed—a string of numbers she had memorized but never understood.
Vincent saw the realization hit her face.
“I knew it,” Vincent breathed, a grim smile touching his lips. “Patrick didn't just walk away. He left an insurance policy. And Dominic is hunting for it right now.”
Before Cassidy could answer, the heavy wooden doors at the end of the gymnasium hallway burst open with a deafening crash.
Heavy boots pounded against the concrete floor. Shouts echoed through the stairwell.
“Vince! We’ve got incoming!” a voice yelled from the shadows.
Vincent didn't panic. His body went instantly rigid, his hand slipping beneath his waistband to draw a sleek, suppressed 9mm pistol in one fluid motion. He grabbed Cassidy by the upper arm, pulling her behind the reinforced steel corner post of the boxing ring.
“Stay down,” Vincent ordered, his voice dropping into absolute commander mode.
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“What is it?” Cassidy demanded, crouching beside him, her instincts screaming for action.
“Dominic didn't wait to be deposed,” Vincent muttered, peering through the ring ropes. “He brought backup.”
